


Saviour of Nothing

by Cornerofmadness



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:36:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22056412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cornerofmadness/pseuds/Cornerofmadness
Summary: Malcolm has messed up. Watkins has him prisoner and he might not live to see another day.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 43
Collections: Bite Sized Bits of Fic from 2019





	Saviour of Nothing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darkmoore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkmoore/gifts).



> **Disclaimer:** Chris Fedak and Sam Sklaver owns it
> 
> **Notes:** written for darkmoore in comment_fic for the prompt Prodigal son, Malcom Bright, Malcom, tied up and in pain, expecting his life to end soon, thinks about how reckless he's been, how stupid and wishes he could get a do over.

XXX

_Through your need to feel you're right  
You're the saviour of nothing now_   
**Saviour of Nothing- Disturbed**

_Three, simple words, call for backup_. Gil had made him repeat those words but Malcolm hadn’t followed instructions. He hadn’t called once he realized John was in the house, hadn’t reported where he’d gone and with whom. Malcolm shuddered against the cold floor, trying to ignore the pain wracking his body. His head thundered like Thor himself sat inside, slamming his skull with his hammer. His stomach clenched like a fist against the nausea born of a concussion coupled with anxiety and benzodiazepine withdrawal. Did Watkins know how sick he was going to get without his meds? How much more would he torture him once he realized Malcolm was an addict, a legally prescribed one but an addict none the less? He’d have to spin his symptoms as if it was all concussion or things could go even worse for him.

_Even worse?_ he thought bitterly. _Can it get worse?_ He was shackled to the floor in a cabin in the woods. Half the horror stories out there started with a cabin in the woods and horror was the order of the day. Was this the cabin his father had taken him to that fateful trip? Did Watkins own it? How many people had died in this cabin? Was he next? _You’re definitely next_. He drew in a shuddering breath, fire flaring in his ribs, cracked from the incident in the tunnel.

How could he have been so damn stupid? No, not just stupid: arrogant. Maybe the FBI had been partially right. He did have his father’s narcissistic tendencies. Only he could find Lazar. No one else was clever enough. That was insulting to Gil and the others. He hadn’t meant it to be, and they’d been kind enough not to call him on his nonsense. They should have. Maybe he wouldn’t be in this mess if they had. He had been behaving himself. He hadn’t interfered with the FBI. He’d let Colette insult him without much comment. He really hadn’t imagined he’d stumble onto Lazar, to discover his true identity while working another case.

Malcolm managed to sit up. The room spun and he nearly vomited on himself. He probably would sick up soon enough as the withdrawal worsened. It would only get uglier from there because he couldn’t see anything to relieve himself in. Hell, his wrists were shackled to the floor so tightly he wouldn’t have much wiggle room to get his pants down if he needed to. He was screwed. _You should have told Gil while you had the chance. Why were you so damn vague when you had him on the phone? Why not just tell him where the hell you were?_

_Because you wanted to be the hero, the one to take down your father’s partner in crime_. Tears of frustration sprang to his eyes but Malcolm refused to shed them. Was that really it? Or was it because he thought he could control Watkins or eliminate him? No one would think twice if he shot and killed Watkins, a serial killer who had already taken shots at Malcolm, who had attacked the police men in the hospital. They might even rejoice like that sheriff who had a hand in costing Malcolm his job. If Watkins was dead, no one but he and his father would know what happened on that camping trip. His father had protected him for the last twenty years – or more likely protecting himself and Malcolm just so happened to benefit from it. Watkins could tell people that Malcolm helped them stab a woman to death. 

Could he even trust his memory on that? He didn’t know. He remembered his father’s hand forcing his with the knife. He remembered running through the woods with the knife in hand, terrified and crying. Edrisa had found the damn knife. That much was real. In his night terrors, he was often fleeing, right out doors or through windows if he didn’t restrain himself. That urge to race away from something wasn’t born from nothing. It was all locked up in his head. Dwelling on it now wouldn’t help. He needed to clear his mind.

He wasn’t sure if it was recklessness that doomed him and Shannon in Watkin’s grandmother’s house. They had underestimated the blind old woman certainly but had it been reckless? Probably. He’d been on a roll with reckless and stupid lately. He’d stupidly let himself fall asleep with Eve and nearly killed her. He’d been idiot enough to put a loaded gun to his head. What the hell had he been thinking? Never put a gun to your head even if you were the one to load and unload it. It was just borrowing trouble especially since all he needed to do was pretend he was holding his gun as his mind worked through the crime scene. He’d teamed up with a disgraced cop who was salivating to clear his name once he realized it might be possible and just as anxious to clear his lover’s name as well. It had been reckless to not put some checks and balances in places.

Now Shannon was dead. Malcolm was going to die here in this cabin where maybe he, his father and Watkins had killed someone twenty years ago. He might be able to talk Watkins out of it but he doubted it, not this time. The man had let him off easy twice. Now Malcolm knew the man’s beloved grandmother was complicit in the crimes. Now Malcolm had to die. _See, Colette? It did go back to the abnormal influences on his life thanks to his mother and grandmother. It’s not a slam against women. It’s a testament to their power and influence but you’d never agree. Will you even help look for me?_

If she did it was only because she was ordered to. Colette wouldn’t care if he died. She wanted him dead and buried. Gil, Dani, and JT would search for him. He had to trust in them like he had never trusted in anyone. Of course, he’d always trusted Gil. Malcolm knew how smart his found father was. Gil would go to Shannon’s house. He’d figure out the same thing Malcolm and Shannon had but maybe he’d have more sense than to go charging in willy nilly and get caught like a fool. Gil would get JT and Dani searching out properties owned by Watkins, gun permits, the works. Maybe it would lead to Watkins in time. If nothing else maybe it would lead to Malcolm’s body.

A shadow passed outside the window. Was that Watkins returning? A bird? Maybe Watkins was back in the city celebrating Christmas with his grandmother by cleaning up and disposing of Shannon’s body. Would they to try frame him just in case he escaped? Malcolm tugged on his shackles. Fat chance of that happening. Watkins had nearly clamped off his circulation with how tight the handcuffs were. Oh, sure movies and TV made it look easy to dislocate a thumb and slip out but Malcolm’s father had taught him well. Dislocating the thumb at the metacarpal-phalangeal joint wouldn’t do much because it was the trapeziometacarpal joint, where the thumb jointed the wrist that mattered. That’s where the handcuffs hung up if he tried to pull free.

He’d have to destroy ligaments and tendons to get that joint apart. He couldn’t remember how many soft tissues connectors there were but even if he could pull them asunder, his hand would swell fast, probably before he could shift the handcuff. Nothing was ever as easy as the movies made it look. It wasn’t like he had a paper clip or hair pin in his pocket either. He could get the lock undone that way. He was trapped good and proper. No one came in the cabin. Maybe the shadow had been a bird. Maybe he’d have a few more minutes to live. Dying on Christmas had never been in the plans. It couldn’t end like this.

If he had one Christmas wish to make, it was to do over the whole day. Call Gil or Dani or even JT. Tell them Watkins’s name and address and have them meet him there. If he could do it all again, he’d not be an arrogant jackass out to do it all on his own, like he had something to prove. This time he’d depend on his team. He’d stay alive.

Malcolm laid back down, hoping the pain in his head would fade, that the room would stop spinning. 

_Please, I don’t want to die_.


End file.
